


Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, beware the punch, company holiday parties are fraught affairs, it's always stronger than you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a lovely gift at the Yard's annual holiday party and gift exchange. Sherlock... does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have allowed John’s gift to lull him into a false sense of security. John had made a huge show of inspecting every parcel in the pile at the Yard’s annual gift exchange, and had finally ended up with a box of assorted artisanal jams and honeys.

“The _only experiment_ anyone is performing on these,” John said, fixing Sherlock with a stern glare, “will be to determine which is the most delicious on toast.”

Sherlock merely sniffed. John was never going to see that honey again, but he didn’t need to know that _now_.

“Go on then, Holmes, your turn,” Dimmock called. Already on his third glass of punch, and becoming increasingly ebullient. Soon he would progress to clapping people on the back, and that was a horror not to be borne.

“And no deducing, either!” Lestrade added. “You get five seconds, I’m counting.”

Sherlock scowled at him, and snatched a flat box wrapped in gold paper off the top of the pile. As if he hadn’t already analyzed the pile of presents. This one was small, light, tastefully wrapped, didn’t smell of food, and--perhaps most importantly--had been contributed by D.I. Hopkins. Too self-important for his own good; certainly not the type to risk embarrassment by bringing a tacky gag gift to an office party.

Sherlock ripped off the paper and lifted the top of the box. John, peering around his shoulder, stifled a giggle (Dimmock: not the only one on the punch), and a cold wave of horror washed over Sherlock.

Inside the box, neatly folded, lay a pair of novelty kitchen aprons: the “his and hers” kind, airbrushed with lithe, nearly-nude torsos in red lingerie vaguely reminiscent of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. “Dear _God_ ,” Sherlock whispered, pulling the man’s apron out of the box and holding it gingerly at arm’s length.

Beside him, John shook with the effort of holding back his mirth. “I don’t think that’s what Santa looks like under his suit,” he gasped, between undignified snorts of laughter.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock snapped. “He’s mythical; he doesn’t look like anything.” His lip curled in disgust. “This is horrendous, honestly. Why would anyone wear these? It’s not as if they’ll fool the viewer into thinking they’re nude, and that’s certainly not what abdominal muscles--”

“Put them on!” Dimmock shouted, to a general chorus of approving hoots and cheers.

“No. Absolutely not. That idiotic tweed _hat_ was bad enough; I refuse--”

“C’mon, Sherlock,” John said, interrupting his tirade with a hand on his arm. “There’s two of the bloody things. I’ll wear one if you do.”

“No, John--”

“It’s a party, have a little fun. We’ll track down the photos and burn them later, yeah?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, with bad grace. He could still feel the heat of John’s hand where it had rested briefly just below his elbow, even though he knew that wasn’t scientifically possible, not so many seconds later, and not through two layers of cotton and wool. For a second it was as though John’s very fingerprints had been burned into his skin. He scowled. “But I won’t wear it all night. And I’m going to dip them in acid when we get home. And _you_ are Mrs. Claus,” he added, shoving the second apron at John’s chest.

“Oh, no. Of the two of us, I am definitely not Mrs. Claus. Why am I Mrs. Claus?”

“You’re shorter. Statistically speaking, women are--”

“Nope, not going down that road. Besides,” John added, gesturing to the Santa apron, and the very _brief_ pair of red briefs airbrushed thereon. “I’ve got pants just like those at home; I should get that one.”

The assembled crowd picked that precise moment to fall utterly silent, and John’s declaration rang unnaturally loud in the lull. Sherlock watched in barely-contained fascination as the blush spread across his face, tinting everything from the collar of his hideous jumper to the tips of his ears the scarlet of the pants in question. He expected John to protest, to insist, perhaps, that the pants had been a gift (true) or that he never wore them (false; he was wearing them now). (He would claim, if pressed, that he had chosen those pants tonight because everything else was in the wash; in fact, he secretly found them festive. And flattering--which was, Sherlock had to admit, an accurate assessment.)

Instead of protesting or hiding, John turned to face the Yarders fully, raised his glass in a toast, and winked. “Cheers.”

That was it, Sherlock realized, in a cloudy sort of way (John and Dimmock: not the only ones who’d tried the punch). He was done for. Damn the man and his terrible reindeer jumpers and his festive drinks and the strange, undeniable dignity he managed to maintain despite all of the above. John was actually _wearing_ the bloody apron now, the absurd, anatomically-unlikely airbrushed breasts gone lumpy over his jumper, and his hand on his hip in a parody of a model’s pose. And he was grinning about it, too, any lingering indignation over being the Mrs. Claus long gone, in a flush of punch and the Yard’s raucous applause.

John turned back to Sherlock, still standing frozen behind him with the remaining apron dangling loosely from his hand. Sherlock knew he was staring, but found himself strangely unable to look away, or affect his usual expression of detached disdain. John was grinning still, grinning at _him_ , and his eyes were so very blue and his face was creased with laugh lines that demanded to be memorized.

John stopped in front of Sherlock, close enough that he had to tip his head back to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and pulled the apron out of Sherlock’s unresisting hand.

“Don’t make me stand on my tip-toes,” he said, reaching up to loop the ties of the apron around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock bent his head a little, mesmerized by John’s proximity, by the small stray flecks of fuzz on his jumper, by the accidental brush of John’s hands on his hair as he settled the apron over Sherlock’s shoulders. And he was _still smiling._

“Sexy,” John said, smoothing his palms down the front of the apron, right over Santa’s unnaturally emphasized pectorals, right over Sherlock’s wildly thrumming heart. His eyes twinkled with mirth, but there was a warmth to his voice that shot sparks up Sherlock’s spine.

“John--” he began, unsure of what he was about to say. But he didn’t get further than that, because suddenly John’s hands--which had not strayed from Sherlock’s chest--twisted in the front of the apron, pulling Sherlock in till they were pressed flush together, and then John’s lips were on his, and he was so warm and he tasted of punch and somehow, somehow he was _still smiling_ \--

When they broke apart a few seconds later, and Sherlock’s brain lurched back online, it was to another round of unnatural silence.

Oh.

He had forgotten they had an audience.

“Happy Christmas, you mad bastard,” John said, his cheeks pink from more than the punch and his breath coming a little more rapidly now. Sherlock wanted him to look like that _forever_.

“John,” Sherlock began again. “Let’s go home.”

“And take off these ridiculous aprons?”

“And take off _everything_.”

**Author's Note:**

> One thousand thanks to Alter, for beta-ing my first foray into fanfic and bolstering my fragile ego with kind words. And of course, thanks to my former neighbors, for twenty years of zany gift exchanges and unwitting inspiration. I didn't think it would turn into slash fic, but then again, who ever does?


End file.
